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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27269263">Your Wife is Gross</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/'>Anonymous</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Original Work</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>2nd person narrator has a dick, Belching, Burp Kink, Burping, Other, Stuffing, belch kink, bloated sex, eructophilia, full belly sex, married, slob, soda bloat</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-07 02:40:20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,176</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27269263</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Fluffy domestic burp porn.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>36</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Anonymous</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Your Wife is Gross</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>               On the drive home, you’re in such a frenzied fugue, you don’t even listen to music. You’re hungry, tired, dirty: the typical triumvirate of complaints after a long shift, but with the added burden of a horniness so intense, everything seems to go fuzzy at the edges. Your wife tried to get something started this morning, but you shook her off with a vague promise to fuck her twice as hard later in recompense. Somehow, the idea turned back around on you, and stuck like a splinter between the folds of your brain. You can still see her pout on the back of your eyelids.</p><p>               Once you’ve parked, you practically barrel roll out of the car. It’s only times like these that you realize how many keys you have; you fumble with the tangle of your keyring for what feels like hours before you manage to get the door open. You’ve been gone long enough that you’re able to detect the odor of your house. It’s a sapid, mouth-watering scent, redolent of a perpetually oncoming meal. The scent of your home, but more so the scent of your wife.</p><p>               After you’ve kicked your uncomfortable work shoes off, you skate the linoleum down the short hall from the foyer to the living room, where your wife makes her evening nests. She’s tucked in her proper place, on her side of the couch, looking like a timid hermit crab in a shell of blankets. She beams sleepily as she sees you, wordlessly throwing her arms out to command you to come in for a hug.</p><p>               You had your childhood stint of shitty taste, too unimaginative to be aroused by anything but what homogenous zooids of the media insisted was attractive: a Barbie-esque height-to-width ratio, blue-white teeth lined up like British soldiers bared in an intractable smile, a strict adherence to a color palette composed only of shades of pink and yellow. Luckily, you grew out of that. Your wife stands as such a scion of everything you find preferable in a fellow human being, it seems as if you built your tastes around her, rather than just lucking out more than any Beverly hillbilly.</p><p>               She’s dark, like the color of bedtime, with plush lips, plush hips, plush tits—she looks like a stuffed animal, essentially. There’s not a single angle to her; one rounded shape merely gives way to another. Her weight falls within the zone that male doctors tell her to start slimming up immediately, while female doctors have no comment. Even more alluring than her tactile traits is her general philosophy on life. You were madly in love the first day you met, when she informed you that she considered her greatest role model to be Winnie the Pooh.</p><p>               “You’re late,” she fake scolds into your neck, leaning into your hug. You wish she would come out from her blanket burrito, so that you could hold her without the buffer of pillows on her lap, but you know she’ll have to be baited out gently over the course of the night. You give her an extra firm squeeze, and she burps directly into your ear, as she is wont to do.</p><p>               “Did you get my text?”</p><p>               “My phone’s lost to the blankie zone.” She gestures broadly at the mass of blankets and pillows ensconcing her. “Or it’s possible it got swept up in The Foodening. I—<em>buuurp</em>—I went kinda hard, not gonna lie.”</p><p>               Only then do you take notice of the stack of greasy pizza boxes on the floor. There’s four, alongside the sticky remains of three 2liters. You give the boxes a nudge with your toe; they’re empty. When you look back to your wife, she’s sucking down the fuzzy dregs of a fourth bottle of cola. She pulls it from her lips, meticulously replaces the cap, and then blasts out a brassy belch that twists up her face for a full two seconds.</p><p>               “Es-kyooz me,” she giggles sweetly, as if she hadn’t nearly suffocated you in a sugary miasma.</p><p>               “Damn, girl.” You can’t help but be reverent. “Four pizzas? And you didn’t save me one piece?”</p><p>               “They had three new kinds I wanted to try, and then I wanted a back-up just in case they weren’t any good. Which they—<em>burp</em>—they were. Check me out.”  With the flourish of a stage magician, she tosses away her central blanket, revealing that what you thought was a pile of pillows was definitely not.</p><p>               She looks like she’s pregnant with a preschooler. Her oblong belly drapes her lap nearly to her knees. It has a look of both dangerous pressure and dizzying softness, the shape of her day-to-day pudge stretched over her churning, over-inflated guts. Her tits are shoved up and out of the way by the mass, so that they’re nearly pointing at the ceiling. Her stomach vibrates and wobbles as it moans. She gives it a proud pat with both hands, grinning around the belch she loosens.</p><p>               “You think you’re <em>so</em> cute,” you sneer, making her release another peal of giggles, interrupted by a couple of quick burps. She makes a cute little round-mouthed face each time one breaks loose. If you weren’t so horny, you might be a little annoyed. As it is, you’re already in the process of removing your pants.</p><p>               “Oh my God,” she laughs, ducking her head in the briefest show of apology, ”I’m way too—<em>burp</em>--bloated to fuck. <em>Buoorp</em>! Sorry, babe. Although you might recall <em>I</em> wanted to fuck this <em>morning</em>, but <em>someone</em> said <em>no</em>.” As much as you’d like to knock her up, you shudder to think of how bratty any child the two of you would raise would be.</p><p>               “You don’t even have to do anything. You can watch TV.” You’re not pleading so much as explaining what’s going to happen.</p><p>               “You are—” she grunts with the effort of working up a bubble of gas so large, you can see it bulge in her throat as it rises. It blasts her lips open, rattling the furniture just slightly as she expectorates a long, vibrato-laden syllable. For the last couple of seconds, she pounds her fist on her chest, working out the last of the pressure with renewed volume. She has to take a moment to breathe and suck the spit from her bottom lip before she can finish with, “disgusting.”</p><p>               You’re so utterly enamored by your wife, even this display is charming you. She goes dead weight as you hike her nightgown up past her hips, and then work at dragging her panties down her thighs, spitting and cursing as they roll and twist rather than sliding how you’d like. Despite her efforts to appear completely disinterested in the battle between you and her underwear, a little smile is playing at her lips.</p><p>               Her pussy matches everything else about her. She’s got a fat, slightly protruding vulva, covered in clean, trim, but incredibly thick hair. It always looks like a mouth puckered up for a kiss. The taffy pink of her insides is sunshine bright against her dark skin. As soon as you’ve done away with the accursed undergarments, you grab a squishy thigh in each hand and pry her open, shoving your head in to give her pudgy cunt a loud, wet, enthusiastic smooch. She gasps, but the sudden lift of her ribcage loosens yet another belch. It sounds like she’s doing a masterful impression of a cow.</p><p>               There’s no real need to prep her. Just from a single press inward, your face is wet from your forehead to your chin. You give her clit a quick lap before pulling back. This is where you’d normally crawl up over her, but you have little confidence in scaling the mighty peak of her belly. You can’t see anything past the high zenith her little knot of a bellybutton sits atop, but from the tone in her voice when she calls, “You’re on your own down there,” you can tell she’s highly amused.</p><p>               Undeterred, you throw both arms around one of her thighs, positioning yourself as if you’re about to uproot a mighty sequoia. You have to push off against your knees to lift it, rolling her halfway to her side. She belts out a string of staccato burps, minimal in size but impressive in number. The sound transitions seamlessly into her laughter. Perpendicular like this, her belly flops to the side, spilling over the edge of the couch, out of the way. You wind from the elbow to give it a big slap. She projects a short, deafening belch, and then continues with her laughter. The heavy mass of her gut continues to wobble for so long, you give up on waiting for it to stop.</p><p>               One plunge is enough to bury your cock all the way in. She gives an excited little shriek, like a kid going too high on the swings. Even with her water slide pussy, you normally like to take things slow, just to build suspense, but an entire shift of half-chubs has worn your patience down flat. Like a dog, you hammer into her with short, hard, arrhythmic jerks of your hips. The motion travels through her pudding-soft body in waves, rippling her wobbly ass, traveling up the prodigious expanse of her belly, up past her round tits with their doily-sized areolas, ending with a buck of her head.</p><p>               “Ah—<em>BORP</em>—I—<em>buUUurp</em>—I—” The sloshing of her guts is scattering the bubbles of gas within her like a startled school of fish. Which each truncated hump, you whack another quick burp out of her. She’s trying to tell you something, but the words keep getting buried under her growling eructations. With a roll of her eyes, she attempts a new method of communication: she uses her belches in lieu of her voice to express, “<em>Pound. Out. The. Gas.</em> <em>For. Me. Pleeeaaaa—AAAaurruuueese!”</em></p><p>               The final word vibrates through her body, right into your cock. You can’t tell if this is more arousing, disgusting, or hilarious, but it’s all you can do not to nut immediately. You toss her thigh off of your shoulder and make a full frontal assault, hugging her massive belly with both arms and using it to hold her in place. A firm squeeze causes a roaring belch to tear up her throat, making her eyes pop; the pitch changes as you fuck forward, making her trill. She grips tight onto your wrists with her fingers, holding them in place, as if letting go was ever an option. You can feel as her belly gets looser, the balloons of pressure inside deflating with each deafening blast.</p><p>               She contracts tight around you. Finally, you get your own release: if you weren’t buried under so much flesh, you swear the force of the cum spraying out of your slit would make a sound. You’re intent on making this a symphonic grand finale: she barely has time to take that first deep inhale of the climax before you squeeze her belly up against your chest with all your might.</p><p>               The effect is cartoonish. Her lips flap. Her cheeks blow out like sails. The sound is like the trumpets announcing the arrival of the apocalypse. It rattles the bulbs in the overhead lights, makes the lamp on the side table bounce, jostles the empty 2liter bottles onto their sides. The vibrato through your cock is so fine, it feels like one prolonged touch. You see bright spots chasing their own tails in your vision. You don’t have the strength to hold onto her belly any longer; you flop forward onto her as if she were a half-deflated air mattress. With your ears now closer to the cynosure of the explosion, you feel your eardrums start to burn.</p><p>               The Belch—you feel as if it should be described using a proper noun—finally starts to lose steam, and then peters out. She takes a massive inhale once her airways are finally free, refilling her utterly collapsed lungs. You have the remaining sense to roll off of her, onto the floor.</p><p>               Little pockets of gas are still slipping free, but they don’t impede her ability to speak anymore than her panting. “That. <em>Brup</em>. That was <em>nuts</em>.”</p><p>She sounds muffled. You’re pretty sure your hearing is permanently damaged.</p><p>“Oh my God. <em>Burp</em>. The neighbors totally heard that.” She burps again, and then laughs into her breathing. You can’t see anything but the carpet, but you can hear as she slaps at her belly. “I can’t believe how much of that was—<em>braaap</em>—was just bubbles from the pop. Holy shit.”</p><p>You’re not sure whether or not a sound can has ever given someone a concussion, but there’s a first time for everything.</p><p>“Is it weird—<em>burp</em>—is it weird if that made me like, totally starving again?” She giggles, not waiting for the response that’s not coming. “Okay, I’m weird. Whatever. I’m ordering more pizzas. If you go get me something to drink, I’ll give you a slice. Half a slice. Okay, a crust.”</p><p>              </p><p>                </p>
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